


Collateral Damage

by jcrowquill



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows (2010)
Genre: Fix-it fic, Light Dominance, M/M, Whipping, power struggles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 12:17:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jcrowquill/pseuds/jcrowquill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A shift in power following a change in circumstance.  Dependence isn't something that James Moriarty welcomes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darkest_alchemy](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=darkest_alchemy).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [Collateral Damege 连带损伤](https://archiveofourown.org/works/851797) by [jcrowquill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jcrowquill/pseuds/jcrowquill), [melnakuru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/melnakuru/pseuds/melnakuru)



> Originally posted on Livejournal (jcrowquill.livejournal.com) on 12/28/11. Chapter 1 is rated teen, Chapter 2 is explicit.  
> Heavy spoilers for Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows. This follows the events of a Game of Shadows. Thanks to jim_in_westwood for beta!  
> I like to think about the bad guys and their relationships because they do have them, for certain... and they're insanely interesting. What sort of person loves a man who can shoot someone from 650 meters away? The good guys have support structures and a host of friends, whereas there needs to be more of an "us against the world" relationship between villians... there's a LOT of trust needed to hop in bed with a man who could kill you at any moment. Because of that, I tend to think that those relationships need to remain at a certain balance, much more than the relationships between the good guys.

Moriarty had commissioned the rifle for him to commemorate the first time that his precise marksmanship had saved the professor’s life. Moran tended to think less of the apparently legendary shot, first of many, than of the tongue-tangled kiss that followed. True, that was also the first of many, but the significance of that was the permanent, invisible brand while the gun was like a leash's clasp on a collar.

Moran had commissioned the thin, semi-flexible metal vest after the first, and only, time that he had failed to be at his master's side at a critical moment. He himself would never have worn such a thing, as he needed every ounce of his body's mobility and speed, but the professor in his even stillness had no such excuse; he refused instead with a simple, firm, "No."

The night of the summit, Sebastian Moran changed the dressing on the bullet wound in his side, paling again as he carefully cleaned the aching, expertly stitched lesion. When the angry red mark was covered again in fresh gauze, his eyes lost their glaze of pain and it was as though the wound had ceased to exist.

"Tonight, professor; this isn't like other nights."

And so the ginger professor, the morally insane genius, had said yes as he pulled the gunman close with his hands on his lean sides. Then he pressed his thumb against the wound hard enough to make Moran cry out into his mouth as he kissed him. Soon after, he had him on his back, his smooth intellectual hands on the insides of his lover's knees pressing his thighs apart wide enough to test the limit of his fatigued muscles.

"Professor, professor..." moaned the gunman, as though they no longer had names.

As he fell through the freezing mist for eternal moments, James Moriarty's eyes seemed to see every flake, swirl of water, and droplet of moisture. His emotions cycled rapidly through hatred, fury, pride, and admiration as his mind rapidly composed paragraph after paragraph of narrative and abuse, starting and ending with "Holmes." It wasn't until the icy water became visible through the mist below that he felt his first penetrating realization of mortality, and it was at that moment that his heart screamed "Moran."

He fell past the range of the pounding falls themselves rather than directly under their violent downpour, and his outstretched hands broke the turbulent surface with a sickening snap. The swirling water permeated his clothing instantly, weighing it down; the breath he'd taken before impact was forced out in a watery gasp as his body immediately went into shock. As the undertow pulled him under and twisted his body, dragging him across rocks and through rapids, he distantly felt bones breaking and flesh and fabric being torn and abraded by the rocky bed. Even when his face broke the surface again and again as he struggled intuitively for air, he had no perception of direction, no concept of which way was up or down.

He would later claim to have been contemplating Dante's vision of an icy circle of Hell, but the reality was that he had few thoughts other than clawing at anything that seemed solid and fighting for breath like the most common of men. Ultimately, what would save the world's greatest criminal mastermind was a combination of luck, loyalty, and a form-fitting metal vest.

\----

He was aware of pain before anything else. Each time he regained some semblance of consciousness he was better able to assess the sensation. Pain, he reflected groggily on one occasion, but the curious fogging and near absence of pain that signified heavy use of drugs. He deduced by smell that he was being tended by a medical professional, but the lack of certain sounds told him that it was not a hospital. He also knew without opening his eyes that someone was beside him, and he knew even during most rudimentary levels of consciousness that the individual at the side of his bed was none other than Sebastian Moran.

The knowledge that it was his marksman compelled him to feign sleep longer, postpone meeting his keen eyes until he had reasons. Excuses. Explanations. His waking thoughts were Sebastian, Holmes, and failure. Though he thought them in that order, he finally addressed them verbally in the opposite.

"It's all gone, Moran. Finished."

He was surprised by the quality of his own voice: quieter, coarser, and slightly lower than he remembered. His lover's voice was quiet as well and sounded exactly the way he thought it should.

"What do I care, professor? I have more money than the damned Prime Minister."

Eyes still closed, the professor felt the warm weight of Sebastian's hand on his chest. He had never been reliant on physical contact but he felt a sudden, startlingly human comfort in the touch. He was silent again as he wearily assessed these emotions and asserted his dominance over them. It would never do to need this.

"That's quite callous of you." His mouth responded sluggishly to his mental order to smile as he spoke, trying to make his comment take on the lighter, slightly disaffected tone he wanted to hear.

His companion laughed in his mild way, though there was a barely audible breathlessness.

"Well, I think that perhaps the tables may have turned, professor, and I'll be needing your services."

"What services might those be?"

"A gunman's not much use all on his own. I think I'd like to hire your brain." His hand moved a little restlessly on the covers. Even when it wasn't wrapped around the grip of a gun, it was a powerful hand; James Moriarty felt slightly disconcerted by its seeming impotence.

"You have a perfectly serviceable one of your own, Mr. Moran," he replied tiredly.

"Yes," he said agreeably. "But it isn't nearly so good at mathematics as yours... and I feel I could use a man who's sharp with numbers. Investing."

Moriarty recognized it for what it was: an offer to share what he had, an offer to act as a backer on a new enterprise, an offer to resume service as a hired gun for literally no payment at all. Sebastian wasn't the type to pull punches; this was a clear acknowledgement of failure, but it represented an oddly reassuring faith in his future success. And ultimately, this was what had made him **Colonel** Moran prior to his discharge - the ability to assess a situation and create a new strategy without breaking another man's pride.

"I'm only concerned that you wouldn't be able to afford me," he continued in the same quiet voice he was so unused to hearing from himself. Moran laughed a bit.

"Maybe we can negotiate on the terms, professor."

Professor Moriarty finally opened his eyes to meet those of his closest ally, the only man on the devil's green Earth whose continued existence mattered to him. He could tell by looking at him that the stage of carefully directed fury had already passed; he had moved into an introspective, verging-on-mournful quiet that would linger until he set himself a new task. Moran constantly required direction. He saw anxiety in the other man; he saw a convenient willingness to forgive anything. He saw affection. In short, he saw everything that he wanted to see, save his own reflection in the other man's eyes.

"How damaged am I now?" he asked firmly, without self-pity.

"Damaged?" Moran looked at him consideringly, his thoughtful mouth pulled slightly. "Well, better than you were three weeks ago, but unfortunately not so well as you were a month ago."

"Just give me a basic appraisal, Sebastian. A list, if you will."

He licked his lower lip, and Moriarty could see that he had chewed the center almost raw and likely had been doing so for weeks.

"Both of your legs are broken, professor. One quite badly. Your left arm is broken, your left wrist. Several fingers on both hands. Several ribs cracked, but not broken. Bruises. Deep lacerations, all stitched up, of course... the scars will be smaller, but you'll definitely have them....” He paused for a long moment then said, "I'm glad you wore that vest, professor. Otherwise you would have had your damn guts ripped out. Doctor said it was probably what kept your back from snapping like a fucking twig."

James wanted to wave his hand dismissively, but even the slight shift of his arm under the blanket brought the stomach-twinging stirrings of pain. Moran immediately moved closer to light on the edge of the bed, where he laid his hand lightly but rather firmly on his shoulder. "It's better for now if you don't move too much."

"Yes... though soon, I would hope. I should be quite bored, otherwise."

Moran watched him, his narrow face intense. He knew that his lover had questions, and he knew what they were. He also knew there was no point in not answering them or trying to approach them indirectly. It wasn't his way.

"Holmes is potentially alive, despite a funeral. I saw him, just for a moment, as he was climbing out of the water. I... was going to shoot him when I saw you. There wasn't time for both."

"Ah," Moriarty replied after a quiet moment.

Moran readily recognized that disapproval undercut gratitude in the single syllable. "I know you understand."

"Yes, of course."

And he did understand. Blindingly intelligent, single-minded Moran had made the instantaneous decision to abandon Holmes, likely with the rifle already raised, in favor of a rapid descent down the rocky face of the falls. He simultaneous loved and hated him for it. He groaned quietly, closing his eyes again.

"Kiss me, Moran, before I have the strength again in these broken hands to strangle you."

Moran paused then obediently leaned down to kiss him.


	2. Chapter 2

It would be several weeks longer before the recovering genius would be able to get up. Walking was difficult and required a cane; his doctor, a very intelligent gentleman whom Sebastian had recruited, was a discreet, competent presence. While not as skillful a surgeon as the one whom Sebastian had recently killed in London, the deep cuts that crisscrossed the professor's body and marred his face had been mended so carefully that they remained primarily as smooth, dark lines rather than puckered scars.

Moriarty had felt a pang of vanity at seeing the red-violet scar that created a noticeable mark from the outer corner of his left eye to the bottom of his ear and another that seemed to form an unnaturally straight line that began under the tip of his nose, bisected his philtrum, and continued to the bottom of his chin. His facial hair, obviously, didn't grow along those lines, so the latter scar was visible despite his beard. It wasn't as though his face had been without scars or that he thought himself an unusually attractive man; no, the issue was that these were unmaskable signs of his fall, of his struggle at Reichenbach with Holmes. And of all places, they were on his goddamned face.

Moran laid a newspaper down on the table beside his lover's saucer.

"Not a great deal of interest to be found there, professor," he said conversationally.

"The most valuable is perhaps the absence of interest," he replied over the rim of his teacup.

"Mm," the marksman replied agreeably, settling into the chair beside his. He looked at the professor critically as though assessing his health and mapping out his morning activities. He was about to speak, to make a comment on what he should not have exerted himself doing, when Moriarty spoke instead.

"Did you send that telegram as I told you?"

"Yes, sir, just as you asked."

It was a small difference, asked and told. Differences of that sort had crept in to several of their conversations, and the professor didn't much care for it. Regardless of any tenderness in their dealings or the fact that they were rebuilding an empire on Moran's money, the rangy gunman was subordinate to him. He belonged to Moriarty and, by syllogism, anything that he had belonged to him as well.

"And were there any messages waiting for me?"

The other man nodded and drew a folded sheet from his jacket pocket. He leaned over in his seat with an odd bend at the waist that was almost a servant's bow and set the paper by Moriarty's right hand.

"Thank you, my dear post boy," he replied with a quiet laugh as he unfolded the page. He skimmed it over quickly. "How lovely... they’ve just discovered that Professor James Moriarty willed his remaining assets and property holdings to a private charity before his disappearance. How charitable! Such foresight!"

Moran's smile was slightly indulgent.

"That particular charity in turn made a large donation to a woman in Belfast who lost her husband and brother..."

"...who will soon be moving to Italy to winter her terrible consumption..."

"...where she will deposit the funds into an account that is accessible to both her and her solicitor..."

"...who you happen to know rather well, don't you?" he commented, refolding the letter and tucking it into a small notebook.

"I believe he and I have had a rather good relationship for a number of years, yes," Sebastian nodded, picking up his own tea and staring through the amber-fawn liquid to the bottom of the cup.

"That is an unusual chain of coincidences," Moriarty mused, sipping his tea before setting it aside.

"It is," the gunman agreed. He watched his companion again. "Professor, your color isn't good. Perhaps you should lie down."

"Thank you for your concern, Sebastian, but I'm quite fine," he replied dismissively. He could tell by the quick, calculating movements of Moran's eyes that he wanted to protest, but he instead picked up a muffin and took a somewhat angry-looking bite. Moriarty smiled slightly and buttered a muffin himself.

"You're going to make yourself ill," the other man finally said. "Doctor said you're suscepti--"

"That's quite enough--"

"--susceptible to fevers," he concluded.

"Moran," the professor began in his dangerously soft tone. "I am, and will continue to be, fine. Your concern, however well-meaning, is becoming tedious."

Moran's gaze darted to his lover's eyes, almost the color of his own, then to his mouth. Moriarty suddenly realized that he was looking at where the dark scar cut a swath through his beard. For some reason, this made Moriarty all the more angry. With very carefully feigned calm, he refilled his teacup from the pot.

"All I'm saying, sir, is that you should--"

Just as calmly, the professor upended his cup and dumped its steaming contents into his marksman's lap.

"What--" Sebastian drew a hissing breath of surprise and pain as he leapt to his feet.

Moriarty set the cup neatly down on the saucer then sat back comfortably in his chair. He steepled his fingers as he looked up Moran's soaked trouser leg, now plastered to him from hip to knee. The skin beneath was an angry, stinging red, he was certain, and that image made Moran desirable. It was a desire to savor, though, and he would wait until it could be fulfilled on his own terms. He smiled in his slightly coy way, gesturing absently to the pot.

"Won't you pour me a cup, my dear? Then you really should go change clothes, lest you catch cold."

Sebastian looked back at him, a number of unspoken retorts in his intense eyes, then leaned down to hook his calloused fingers in the handle of the pot.

\-----

"It was Holmes, it had to be Holmes," Sebastian said, sitting down restlessly on the loveseat in their rented parlor in Rome. He dragged his hand down over his tidy beard, his blue eyes intent but his gaze slightly unfocused on the telegram on the low table in front of him.

"Well, my dear Moran, perhaps you should have shot him at Reichenbach when you had the opportunity," the professor said calmly, not even looking up from his newspaper.

The woman who had been indirectly returning Moriarty's wealth had been detained at the border. Due to her advanced illness, she had never made it to her destination; it appeared that her closest relation was a nephew in America, and his fortunes had just dramatically improved with her loss.

"Well maybe you never should have engaged him at all, not called him in to your library for a damned introduction," Moran retorted with unusual sharpness.

"Moran," the other man began calmly, though he had lowered his paper and raised his eyebrows.

"Or maybe - just maybe - you could have let me just shoot him in the damned head before we ever left London."

"You're getting yourself unduly agitated."

Moran had indeed become agitated, and while it took a great deal to ruffle his calm, once engaged his anger needed natural resolution. Normally this came through yelling or violence, sometimes a single well-placed shot where it was deserved. He simply couldn't stop now. Without looking at the professor he continued, muttering to himself intentionally loud enough for his companion to hear.

"But no, no, the great Professor James Moriarty overheard himself called the 'Napoleon of Crime' and had to keep the damn fires of his almighty ego stoked, had to make it a fucking game. A fucking dangerous game, I'll say--"

"I suggest you curb your tongue..."

"--Could have saved you a jolly little tumble over the falls--"

"Moran."

"--And a month out of your mind on opiates--"

"Moran!"

His head snapped around, and he fixed his gaze on his former employer. He stood up angrily and leveled an accusatory finger at him.

"What? What? I almost lost you, James! Then what?"

"You'd have lived in comfort--"

"Oh, damn you," he said angrily, advancing on the seated intellectual. "Damn you and damn your pride! If you had let me - If I had just made the decision for you-"

"This is your last warning."

Moran didn't seem to hear him as he suddenly turned abruptly on his heel.

"No, no. This is ending. I'm going to London. I'm going to kill Dr. Watson, that'll send him a message--"

"Who, Dr. Watson?" Moriarty replied drily as he reached for his cane. He pressed his lips together slightly as he climbed to his feet; it had not yet ceased to be painful to apply weight to his left ankle. "I should say it wou-"

"Holmes!" he spat angrily. "And you can't prevent me from going."

"Sit down." The professor addressed him as calmly as if he were talking to a troubled university student.

He found himself thoroughly ignored as Sebastian Moran turned away from him to reach for his coat then the thin case that held his prized rifle. Moriarty sighed through his nose as he approached him, repeating more firmly.

"Sit. Down."

It was as though the other man hadn't heard him through the shimmering curtain of his fine focus. It was at that point that James Moriarty deftly struck, swiping across the back of the sniper's knees with the length of his cane. It was calculated, enough to hurt badly but not permanently, enough to make him crumple to his knees with a grunt of pain. In a swift movement, he discarded the cane and moved up behind him, catching a handful of his thick hair in his fingers and jerking his head back so that his confused, searching eyes met his own.

"I suppose you can kneel instead, Moran, if you prefer it."

"Sir...!"

"Yes, it is appropriate that you address me as 'sir' when I dress you down. But it would be even more appropriate for you to remain silent for the moment." He liked the sensation of the back of his lover's head resting against his hip and the tension in his neck as he perceived it through his grip in his hair.

"It was, yes, Holmes who slowed our lady's crossing to Italy,” Moriarty continued calmly. “However, it was my intention that he do so and that he think that the money was intended only for your use; it is so much easier to track wealth in Europe. No, it is better that it passes on to another continent, transmuted into new assets such as American rifles and California gold, Pittsburgh steel and southern tobacco." His smile was slow and satisfied. "I have made the acquaintance of a number of fine American businessmen, one of whom happens to have very recently acquired a considerable fortune from his late aunt."

Moran's lips parted slightly, though he hadn't yet figured out which question he would ask.

The professor released his head and instead stroked his hair like he was a cat.

"I'm not your mistress, Moran, and it doesn't suit me to have you controlling of my money."

"Yes, sir." The kneeling marksman slumped very slightly.

Moriarty felt his strength starting to fade again but continued mildly. "Now go hang up your coat and put away your rifle. You aren't going anywhere."

The statement held a finality that Moran found both comforting and disconcerting. With a quiet sigh and a painful throb that ran quickly through the muscles that stretched up the backs of his legs, he pushed himself to his feet. He slowly turned back to his lover, reading his expression calmly. He could easily see the pain in his eyes, the loss of color in his cheeks, and the slight unsteadiness in his balance.

"Professor..." he murmured. Moran reached over to rest steadying hands on his lover’s upper arms as he met his eyes evenly. The other man stoically refrained from leaning into his touch.

"I believe I told you to take off your coat, Moran."

"Let me get you to bed, professor," he said, shaking his head. "You've made your point."

"Clearly I have not," Moriarty commented in his dangerously soft, deceptively gentle tone. It was a tone that made unclear promises. He pulled away and said, "Take off your coat. Now."

To his annoyance, his knees buckled as he said the last word. His gunman caught him around the waist and kept him upright by pulling him up against his front to balance his weight. "Ah, I told you--"

Moriarty felt the changes in his own body more keenly when he was close to Moran; he was thinner now, frailer. The solid weight of his boxing days seemed to be lost in the wasting shroud of his still-healing body. His fingers were cold but surprisingly strong as he gripped Moran's forearms hard enough to bruise him.

"Take off your coat, then go to your room and take off the rest of your clothes. I will deal with you, Moran."

Moran looked surprised, but he recognized an order and knew that this was an instance where he was bound to obey. He licked his lips, still supporting the older man with his strong hands on his waist. "Ah... yes. Sir."

He spared his pride by turning the professor slightly as he released him, moving him closer to the arm of a nearby chair. The sniper slowly removed his coat, then he set his shoulders resolutely as he walked back to his room.

James Moriarty leaned a little heavily on the arm of the chair until he had disappeared from sight then sank into the plush cushion wearily. He felt rising anger with himself that he couldn't have kept his feet for another moment; physical weakness frustrated him now because it was such odds with his mental agility. In every way, he was as brilliant as he had been before the defeat he'd suffered at Holmes' hands - more so, even, as he had been given opportunity to reflect and grow more introspective during his forced inactivity - but now he was half-crippled by slow healing. He knew, logically, that he should have been thankful to be alive, thankful to not to have drowned in hypothermic shock, thankful not to have been crushed on the rocks. But it was hard to suffer loss of status, pride, and health and still feel fortunate, particularly when the dynamic of his most valued and nuanced relationship had suffered extensively for it.

He sighed quietly then drew a deep, bracing breath. He pulled himself up using the arms of the chair and pushed himself to his feet. As he slowly crossed the room, slightly unsteady on his feet, he leaned down to pick up his cane again. With its assistance, he walked back to the room that Moran had claimed as his own. Inside, he could see the marksman sitting on the edge of his bed, nude, waiting for him. He paused just before the doorway, assessing Moran's slim, muscular legs and the tilt of his head, the smooth planes of his neck. His eyes were closed and he was just listening. He wasn't the sort of man women would faint over or poets would immortalize in verse, but there was a quiet, unorthodox beauty in the lines of his utilitarian form and a poetry in to his elegant, economical movements.

Moriarty leaned in the door way, intentionally shifting his weight to make the wood floor creak to announce his presence. He didn't need to and knew it, but it was a courtesy.

"Are you my subordinate, Moran?" he asked, his tone mild.

He opened his eyes and turned his face toward him. If he was cold, he didn't show any outward sign of it. He nodded slowly, "Yes, sir."

There was something in the way he said it, a slight pause, a proud, unblinking stare, that made Moriarty doubt.

"You don't feel that you have been recently," he stated.

There was no response that time. The professor walked in to sit beside him on the top of the comforter then reached over to rest his long, cool hand on Moran's thigh, drawing a quiet inhalation of breath. It was a demonstration of power, his being clothed while the sharpshooter was complete nude. Vulnerability versus the armor of every day. _Rather like Manet's Le déjeuner sur l'herb_ , he reflected somewhere in the back of his mind. He continued, "Rather, you feel that because I have appeared to be dependent on you, we have become equals."

Moran didn't reply, but the slight tensing of his muscles under Moriarty's hand answered the question. There was silence for a moment, a tingling silence that made the hair on the back of Moran's neck prickle slightly and his breath quicken. The professor caressed his thigh lightly then said, "On your feet. Turn away from me; I don't want to see your face."

Sebastian stood obediently and took a step forward. Sitting behind him, Moriarty was at leisure to study the musculature of his back and thighs. His skin was white save for his wrists and hands, the back of his neck, developing bruises on the backs of his knees. Still seated, the professor reached for the neatly coiled belt resting atop Moran's folded clothing.

"It offends me, my dear Moran, that you feel that I am not as capable as I once was."

Moran knew better than to reply, and though his military posture made it obvious that he was listening carefully, there was no movement to betray his thoughts.

The clothed man drew the stiff loop of leather up the outside of the marksman's leg from knee to hip, then up to the small of his back.

Moran stiffened slightly when his master let one end of the belt drop, but took an immediate secondary comfort in realizing that he would be struck with the leather rather than the buckle. Moriarty's voice was quiet behind him.

"The world is built on particular laws, Moran. Laws of science, not laws of man. Because of this, there is a certain order, a certain hierarchy."

The gunman recognized the tone, even as changed as his employer's voice had been by his fall. It was almost coy, darkly violent. He closed his eyes and lifted his chin slightly, setting his jaw in preparation for what he knew was coming.

"Many of these hierarchies are built on strength, power, or some other advantage. But others..."

Still seated, Moriarty drew back his arm and skillfully snapped the belt across Moran's bare back as though the length of leather was a whip. Moran's body jerked, and he drew a sharp breath through his nose.

The professor looked at the long welt that seemed to rise instantly then the secondary tinge of pink that blossomed out from the mark with seconds. He continued in the same tone, "Others are intrinsic."

He struck him again, equally hard, this time across the backs of his thighs. A good schoolmaster, he'd learned as a boy, knew to let the pain of each stripe bloom before striking again. He watched Sebastian's shoulders to time his next three lashes.

Moran, for his part, took them with only pained inhalations and clenched fists. The professor didn't have the strength now to break his skin with the belt, but there was force enough to bruise and sting, skill enough that Moran knew he would eventually cry out.

"In short, certain things will always be above others... and their complements will always be dominated. By their very natures, this will satisfy them and this is the balance they will seek," Moriarty intoned.

He looked up at the almost parallel red lines on Moran's lower back and thighs. Though he appreciated Moran's nude form, there was no lust in his gaze; this was an intellectual and emotional exercise. He rose to his feet, taking the time to balance himself carefully.

"Do you know your place, Moran?"

It took a moment for the pale, slightly quivering man to find his voice. It was tightly controlled and quite breathless.

"Yes, sir..."

"You say that..." He let his voice trail off. Moriarty enjoyed watching the minute, slightly spastic swell of his chest on each of his shallow, quickened breaths, and he savored tilting his head to catch the fine sheen of sweat that was on his lover's neck and back. "But it isn't supported by your behavior," he said finally as he struck the other man again, harder this time. Sebastian's entire body jerked sharply. "You've acted as though it was your place to make choices for me."

Choices as simple as what food he would eat, which doctor would see him. Well-intentioned decisions all, but decisions that were not his to make. He chose clothes for him, not as an impartial valet but as someone who wanted to see him in soft brown.

Sebastian had helped him dress, helped him lace his boots even when he wouldn't be leaving their rooms. He had slipped him arm around his waist to help him walk when the cane wasn't proving sufficient. He had acted superior, hadn't he, when he'd booked their tickets from Switzerland to Italy? Scheduling stops that the professor had felt unnecessary, but Sebastian had insisted upon due to his poor health. The presumptions made him angry.

He had lost so much. The monetary fortune was minor compared to his health, which was minor compared to his pride. If Moran had killed Holmes, he could have been somewhat placated, but the knowledge that Sherlock Holmes was out there, carrying around the memory of defeating him in his cocaine-sharpened mind, was more than his narcissistic intellect could bear. He felt again the rage that had only just begun to bloom when Holmes had blown the pipe's ashes into his face, the fury that had almost choked out his breath before the crushing water ever had the opportunity. It fogged over his mind as it replayed itself, driving him deeper into himself.

"Please...!" Moran's hoarse cry seemed sudden and startling.

He suddenly realized that he was standing over Moran, who had finally fallen to the smooth wood floor and curled inward to try to shield his body from Moriarty's furious blows. His back and legs were covered with red lines, no longer so tidily parallel, some oozing the slightest bit of blood where a second lash had crossed a first and broken the skin.

He slowly lowered his arm and licked his lips, looking over the other man with dawning consciousness. He dropped the belt, feeling a slight ache where the metal buckle had bitten into his palm. He watched for a moment as Moran, who could easily have killed him at any time during this exercise, lay still and gasping on the floor.

"I will do as I wish, Moran, and you will do as I tell you. Do you have any questions?" he asked finally

"No. Sir."

The professor sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, his own breathing labored. As he looked at his lover, he wondered how badly he had hurt him. It was all superficial, he thought in slight relief after a cursory assessment, though he knew that Sebastian would be moving gingerly for several days. He patted the coverlet beside him.

"Now come here, Sebastian, so I may kiss you."

It was the last thing the sharpshooter wanted at that moment, but he wearily unfolded his limbs and painfully lifted himself to perch on the edge of the bed. Each movement ached, as did the press of the cloth against his stinging backside. His injured skin burned.

The professor's mouth against his dry lips was not painful; rather it was a welcome, comforting touch that grounded him. He was shaking, but dry-eyed, and his own tongue felt cool against his lover's as the kiss deepened. Moriarty's arms slipped around his bare body and pulled him close, making Moran moan in pain against his mouth.

James knew this incarnation of Moran, though he hadn't seen him in some time. Subjugated, obedient Moran... Not the confident, playful Moran who had occasionally wrestled his way to a position of dominance between Moriarty's thighs. Not the silent, efficient Moran who scarcely needed the wind gauge that he used out of habit. He would coax those out again by the end of the evening, but for now he accepted the submission as the gift that it was.

Sebastian's hands moved to the front of James' jacket, then to the waistcoat beneath. They were tentative, permission-seeking. The professor leaned into his touch, and Sebastian knew that his request had been granted. Though shaking minutely, his fingers were quick and steady as he unfastened the buttons and pulled off the jacket, then the waistcoat, and finally the shirt. His hands lightly caressed his chest through his undershirt as he leaned closer, needing the proximity.

James pulled back to kiss first the marksman's jaw then his neck and shoulder. His strong, elegant hand slid down his lover's chest, past the healing wound on his side, to grip his hip briefly before just barely brushing across his groin. He knew that the other man was entirely his and would do anything that he asked; further, he knew that Sebastian wanted what he himself wanted. They were again attuned to each other, set to the same frequency, balanced in their positions of supremacy and service.

There had been nothing beyond kisses since before Reichenbach, but there was no awkwardness as Sebastian pressed forward eagerly, craving his warmth. He knew that his lover wasn't in prime condition for this sort of strenuous activity, but he had recently been reminded not to question. James slid his hand back down, this time curling his hand around the other man's length and drawing his fingers upward. Sebastian leaned his head into the curve of James' neck, his warm breath almost tickling against his lover's exposed clavicle. He was nearly silent as Moriarty stroked his arousal, only allowing himself short, rough breaths; the similarity to the sounds he made under each lash of the belt made James tighten his hand and roll his thumb over the head of his arousal on each stroke. When Moran's body began to arch into his movements, James released him and lightly bit his throat.

"Go fetch us something, Sebastian."

Sebastian climbed out of his lap and walked out into the main part of the flat, acclimatized to life outside of normal social laws to an extent that he was not concerned about a servant seeing him completely nude and covered in darkening bruises. By the time he returned to his bed, his companion had disrobed and slipped beneath the covers. He pressed the discreet blue glass bottle into his lover's hand then leaned down to kiss him again, his slightly open mouth and quick tongue demanding. James cupped his hand against the back of his neck then bodily dragged him down into the bed.

He didn't yield immediately because he was unconsciously stalling the moment when the marks on his back would be flat against the mattress. He moved gingerly as he tried to keep his footing, his body jerking involuntarily when James' hand wrapped around his shoulder to pull him closer. The other man smirked as he stole a breath-catching kiss from him and pulled him down, relishing the heat that radiated off of his inflamed skin. Nice, nice, very nice. And then he turned him and pressed him onto his tender back, not a punishment precisely but a reminder, a continued savoring of the beating he'd endured, a nerve-jangling aphrodisiac. Even as Sebastian moaned in pain and half-heartedly tried to sit back up, James knew that the slimmer man was aroused.

He unstoppered the small apothecary vial and slicked his first two fingers, then pressed them deeply into the marksman.

"Ah," Moran gasped, his muscles tightening instinctively against the sudden intrusion. "Damn..."

"Not what you'd wanted?" James murmured, kissing his jaw as he slowly withdrew his fingers. He paused then pushed forward again, this time twisting slightly as he pressed in to the knuckle. "I was so certain..."

"Mm..." Sebastian breathed lazily as he closed his eyes and tilted his head back.

Moriarty worked his strong fingers within him, teasing him and preparing him, stretching him to ready him. Sebastian moved with the rhythm of his hand, though as minutely as possible to avoid agitating his aching body. The pain was already explosively colorful behind his closed eyes and the sensations afforded by his lover's fingers, particularly when he added a third, engrossed his full attention. When James again took his lips, sliding his tongue between his teeth and kissing him demandingly, he almost came.

At the sudden tension in his muscles, James pulled his hand away and paused to slick his own length.

"No, not so soon, Sebastian. You will have to wait." He looked over the panting sniper, appreciatively taking in the blotchy flush of aroused color that had moved up his neck and into his thin face.

"Yes, sir..." he breathed, shifting slightly to accommodate the other man settling between his knees. He felt how much thinner his lover was now, how much less solid he seemed than he had before. Sebastian licked his lips then leaned up to kiss him. His long, sure fingers curled in James' hair and cradled his skull.

He gasped as the professor sheathed his body within his, penetrating him deeply in a smooth, even movement. His fingers tightened in his lover's hair and he let his caught breath out in a slow stream, his eyes closed and his brow furrowed. It was right, this. He felt distantly emotional because being with James made him remember being afraid of being without him. He had thought about it, abstractedly, during the week when they'd first worried that the brilliant mathematician was not going to regain consciousness. He'd been so consumed with worry, grief, and rage that he had been incapacitated and had just sat, mute, at his bedside, looking from his swollen mouth to the black stitches on his chin to his still, undreaming eyes, and then back again in a frantic circuit. After the first time that James had stirred and made a sound of pain, his emotion had focused into rage; the only thing that had prevented him from leaving for London to kill anyone who Holmes may have (even distantly) known was the knowledge that his lover could wake without him beside him. He pointedly avoided thinking of that now, thought the anxiety of it distantly gnawed at the back of his rib cage as James shifted his body to seat himself deeply within him again. His open-mouth kisses turned more demanding, slightly more frantic than he had ever allowed himself before.

James noticed, as he noticed everything, and responded in kind. He moved his hand to hold Sebastian's hip in place as he began to move deeply within him. It wasn't rough, precisely, but it was firm. With every thrust he reinforced his ownership of the man beneath him; each moan and tightening of the sniper's lean muscles was a gift to him. James was tired, weary from the day and exhausted from the ways that he had already exerted himself, but he relentlessly pistoned his hips into Sebastian's, the collision of their bodies impaling the marksman and rocking his raw body painfully against the sheets. He gasped and writhed even as he tried to remain still.

The sensation mounted for the thin professor, the pleasurable heat of his lover's body gripped him and held him tightly. He pushed and pulled against the resistance, finally slipping his hand between their bodies to grasp Sebastian's length again. He had scarcely touched him when the marksman cried out, "James!" and came into his hand. The sound coupled with the corresponding tightening of his muscles was enough for James as well; with a few more exhausting thrusts, he reached his climax and half-collapsed atop his lover.

Neither said anything as they lay gasping, suddenly aware of having become uncomfortably warm and rather damp with sweat but not caring enough to pull away. James lifted himself slightly on his arms to withdraw from the heat of his companion's body then shifted to settle beside him tiredly. Sebastian's fingers found the professor's elbow then traced their way down to his wrist to finally curl between James' fingers.

It verged on sentimentality to allow it, but James didn't pull away. He instead raised the back of the sniper's hand to his lips and commented, "It is only my deep and abiding affection for you, Sebastian, which allows me to both punish and reward you in the same afternoon."

The other man was quiet for a moment, feeling rather peacefully centered, though tired and slightly fevered with pain. He turned on his side but kept his hold on his lover's uncalloused hand, pulling him up snugly against his back. James could feel the heat of Sebastian's injuries glowing against his front and felt a twinge of something that wasn't guilt but wasn't quite pleasure either.

"And it is my love for you that keeps me from shooting your damn head off,” Sebastian commented drily.

James laughed lightly. Sebastian had said 'love,' which was always a pleasurable surprise. He had never responded in kind, though there was an unspoken understanding: James didn't expressly know how to love, only to admire or possess. He had done both in the case of Sebastian Moran, and the result was that the sniper did not feel that his love was unrequited. The weary professor rubbed his thumb against the top of Sebastian's hand.

"I will acknowledge your love by bringing you with me to America, then."

"You never intended to leave me here," Sebastian pointed out calmly.

"No, not at all," James admitted, settling himself a bit more comfortably. "You already unknowingly purchased both of our tickets."


End file.
